five pints or more,
set out on banana leaves
the burnt husk of paddy
for brightening the teeth.
Then she called out,
as gently as she could,
Oh father, oh mother,
arise now from your sleep,
I have drawn the water
for your wash,
your breakfast of gruel
is cooked and ready.
The old ones asked.
Oh Unniyarcha,
why have you cooked our breakfast
so early, the cock has only begun
to crow.
I have my reasons.
said Unniyarcha
I dreamt of my brother
going out for a duel.
I saw him go out
to fight his very first duel.
I must therefore hasten home
to make sure that he doesn’t.
The dream certainly had
a message meant for me.
The old man said,
dreams are untrustworthy.
Besides, pregnant that you are,
you cannot walk your way home.
Oh, but I must go, she cried.
I must stop him
before it is too late.
Translated from the Malayalam by Kamala Das
Imtiaz Dharker (b. 1954)
Gaddi Aa Gayi
It happened like this. Their country
slipped out of their hands and broke
like a cup or an earthen pot.
They never spoke as if they remembered
the shape it used to have.
They never cried over spilt blood,
at least not in front of us. It was as if
you reassure a guest. ‘Oh don’t mind that,
it was only a cheap old cup and anyway
broken china brings good luck’.
And a whole generation swallowed
the nightmares that sounded like trains.
Gaddi aa gayi tation the
Gaddi aa gayi tation the
When the train came in to its destination,
the station drank up the names
of their aunts and uncles,
their neighbourhoods and cities
and our mothers and fathers swallowed
the nightmares that sounded like trains
Gaddi aa gayi tation the
Gaddi aa gayi tation the
They swallowed the things they remembered
and the cousins who had gone away
with the ghost of the place
that broke with the cup. One day when
my mother was planting potatoes in another
country, she dug up a fragment of china
and looked at it as if she remembered
something that had never been spoken
Gaddi aa gayi tation the
Gaddi aa gayi tation the
something she dug out of the nightmares,
something unbroken.
She said the neighbours from the other side
were kind. They took her in and hid her.
They pretended she was one of their own
until they could send her home
Gaddi aa gayi tation the
Gaddi aa gayi tation the
to the country with a different name
to the station on the other side
on another train
English
Faiz Ahmad Faiz (1911-84)
The Morning of Freedom, 15th August 1947
This pock-marked daylight, this morning that reeks of night
Is not the morning we looked for
Is not the morning the good companions longed for
When they set forth across the wasteland by starlight,
Seeking the shore of night’s dead ocean,
Some anchorage for the vessels of grief.
Starting out, those friends
Found traps on young blood’s mysterious highways;
Allurements called from the land of pleasure.
Arms beckoned, lips blew a kiss.
But the face of the morning was their heart’s desire,
The thighs of daylight gleamed near,
Tense with desire, they knew nothing of weariness.
People say that the light and the darkness are parted.
People say that feet and destination have met.
The afflicted are far better off, people say.
The pleasures of union are blessed,
The rigours of parting forbidden.
That fire in their hearts, that longing in their eyes
This ‘blessed union’ will never assuage.
When did the breeze of morning rise,
Where did it go?
On the roadside the lamp glows, just the same.
The night hangs heavy just the same
Our hearts and eyes still look for salvation,
Let us move on now,
We have yet to arrive.
Translated from the Urdu by Kathleen Grant Jaeger and Baidar Bakht
Robin Ngangom (b. 1959)
Flight
The warning disguised as a message
came before the village was up and about,
and when they left
they didn’t carry pots or blankets
or even machetes.
As they went to the outpost of guardians
they left chickens running in the yard
and the dog lazing on the steps.
Flights like theirs
Do not have destinations,
And only once did they wish for wings.
The taste of the herd will return them
To dark and dingy towns where
They will sell used clothes, wild meat and herbs.
The most vulnerable will sell bodies.
Because in spite of the land mines
They still shared limbs.
Words like ‘the end of history’
Will not resonate anywhere in their lives.
They do not have meat and drinks left
To offer to embedded scribes.
As newspapers have died on them. Like before
Their fates will go unreported, arousing
Only a shred of curiosity somewhere.
Translated from the Manipuri by the poet
Anon (c. 16 CE)
From Purattirattu
How Do I Know This Is My Son?
How can I be sure? How do I verify?
that this is my son;
how do I verify?
Eyes are submerged in a sea of arrows,
the wreathed head severed by sword,
the bleeding mouth struck with sharp arrows
frothing for quite some time,
the chest pierced by poisoned shafts,
the thighs discoloured,
as the valiant hero lay on a bed of arrows
like a kalarci flower turned upside down!
Translated from the Tamil by P. Maruthanayagam
Tenneti Suri (1911-58)
Here Comes God
Hey, here comes god,
lifeless in bronze,
parading the streets,
riding his wooden horse.
Ask him about wages, fellows.
Tell him we don’t have
enough to eat.
The wise men tell us
even stone hearts melt.
Let’s see if that’s true.
Bow down to him,
see if he listens,
and let go if he doesn’t answer.
Hold up your hands
millions at once
raise your voice
so the sky itself shivers.
Ask him about the wages, fellows.
Tell him we don’t have
enough to eat.
Translated from the Telugu by Velcheru Narayana Rao
K. Ayyappa Paniker (b. 1930)
Philistines
We have destro
yed the enemies of culture,
We have,
now we do their work
better than they.
Translated from the Malayalam by the poet
Auvaiyar (c. 100 BCE-250 CE)
Elegy (for Anci)
This bright burning pyre
of black half-burned faggots,
pieces picked as if by a gypsy
in a field fire,
may it burn brighter
till it burns down to a handful.
Or rise in flames
and reach out to heaven.
The fame of our sun-like king,
his white umbrellas cool
as the moon,
will not blacken,
will not die.
Translated from the Tamil by A.K. Ramanujan
Khadar Mohiuddin (b. 1955)
From Birthmark
A Certain Fiction Bit Me
A certain fiction bit me
a distortion
a slander
August 10, 1955
that’s the day I was born
in a small village
in a remote corner of Krishna District
Long before I was born
my name was listed among traitors
History depicted
son as stepson,
divided brother from brother
and left me alone
Textbooks laughed at me
in my childhood
I was just becoming a person
when this history drove strange fears
deep into me
tortured me, threw me
to the howling winds
The present makes me responsible
for things I’ve nothing to do with
The present casts around me
shadows of suspicion
Shadows watching me
over my head
always, all ways
They squeeze my existence into numbers
They see 1947
in the umbilical cord, freshly cut
its end still wet with the blood
of the baby born in my house
Hindi-Hindu-Hindustan
Muslim go to Pakistan
Another place to go as well
You will know its name as hell
Helpless in the theatre of slogans
I’m imprisoned in the present
No constitution pats my back
The throne of three lions
smiling behind their whiskers
takes no notice of me
I have no human form
except as an alien
as some kind of memorial to 1947
in the mind
of the first class citizen
Translated from the Telugu by Velcheru Narayana Rao
Akbar Ilahabadi (1846-1921)
Satirical Verses
Akbar, if I stick to the old ways
Saiyid tells me bluntly: Those values are shoddy
If I adopt the new style,
People from my community raise a public outcry
If one talks of moderation; it’s neither here not there
All have stretched their legs too far
This side insists don’t touch even ‘lemonade’
The other feverishly summons, ‘Saqi, bring the cup.’
One side regards the whole book of planned management as
unclean
To the other, the bag of English mail is God’s word itself
Thus Majnun suffers hardship both ways:
In Laila’s company and in Laila’s separation.
Translated from the Urdu by Mehr Afshan Farooqi
Rangrelo Bithu (16 CE)
Praises Galore to the Land of Dhat
The low hills are stony, russet and bare,
with no trees on them save the stunted thorny cactus.
You wouldn’t hear the call of a peacock
in all the land.
Hyenas, porcupines and monitor lizards
are the only creatures that you’d come across.
The people are starved;
hunger drives them afield
in search of the prickly grass
whose seeds I have seen them eat.
Such as the Jadavs of Jaisalmer.
The senior queen drives her donkeys
to a distant pond to fetch her water;
alone she must go,
and bestirring with her hands
the water
to clear its surface
of the floating dirt and debris,
fill her pots;
and load them on to the wooden frames
on the donkeys’ backs
and drive them home,
trudging all the way,
tired and exhausted.
The king’s chief bard is pot-bellied;
he wears his lower garment
in a loose unseemly manner;
he is lame in both his legs;
and groans at every step he walks.
The carpet on which the Rawal’s court assembles
is worn, with large holes in it;
his poets are all stupid
and cannot distinguish between
a buffalo and an elephant;
to them coarse wool
and silk are just the same.
Such is the land of Dhat!
Praises be to the land of Dhat!
The comely women all go
to fetch water at dawn;
they return past midnight
dishevelled and distraught;
their dishevelled children
pine for them all day.
Such, indeed, is the land of Dhat!
Praises galore to the land of Dhat!
Translated from the Rajasthani by Kesri Singh
Vanparanar (c. 100 BCE-250 CE)
A Woman and Her Dying Warrior
I cannot cry out,
I’m afraid of tigers.
I cannot hold you,
your chest is too wide
for my lifting.
Death
has no codes
and has dealt you wrong,
may he
shiver as I do!
Hold my wrist
of bangles,
let’s get to the shade
of that hill.
Just try and walk a little.
Translated from the Tamil by A.K. Ramanujan
Sarala Das (15 CE)
From the Mahabharata
O Chaitana,
As silence fell upon the field of Kurukshetra,
Emerged Manogobinda from under the mighty bell.
Stood he, Manogobinda, to the east of the river of blood.
Climbed he the auspicious column raised for the Bharata war.
Watching the river of blood, the king, Managobinda,
Beat his forehead, surveying all around.
‘O Destiny,’ he cried,
‘I gained such a fortune, so vast,
On the strength of my merits of previous birth.
And sank it all in a trifle, such is my feeble fate.’
Sat there lamenting, the king of the Kurus, atop the auspicious pillar.
Saw he then floating down the carcass of Duhshasana.
Drew it he close into his lap, the proud monarch.
And fell to mourning.
‘O brother mine, Duhshasana, the one great fighter on the earth,
O clear young lad, Duhshasana,
Virtuous, righteous, brave, and wise,
Foremost honoured in the world of warriors.
O dear boy, you hauled Draupadi by the hair,
And stripped her in the hall of the great court.
. . . .
Where dear boy, did you put by all those virtues and pledges,
And now come floating, stretched upon this river of blood?
What use have I, dear, for this life of mine?
Shameless am I to be thus alive, allowing you to perish.
&n
bsp; . . . .
Little of the night is left to sing your virtues.
Would you, my brother bear me across this stream of blood?’
Translated from the Oriya by Madhusudan Pati
Mirza Mohammad Rafi Sauda (1713-80)
From The State of the Realm
Look, you fellows who are here,
Young or old, don’t ever claim from now
That you have a tongue in your mouth—
I have heard great Sauda’s discourse.
My God! What organisation, what flow!
I just asked him, ‘Sir, be pleased to say
If there is any way to survive here
In minimal comfort?’
He said, ‘Better be quiet, man; even
Angels can’t answer this question.
What can I say? Today there are
Hundreds of ways to earn one’s bread.
Here is a brief account.
‘If you acquire a horse, and serve
in some grandee’s cavalry, then
by God, your pay will be paid in
the Upper World. And in the Qazi’s mosque,
dwell donkeys; young and old just wait
for the Mulla to give the call for prayer;
and when he calls, they gag him and say
‘Shut up, you lout, there is no muslimness now.
. . . .
‘For a hundred rupees or two a month, if one
were to serve as a rich man’s physician:
Let the patron just sneeze and he glares
At his tame doctor. He calls for a bow
And arrow to ward off even the hint
Of a breeze. When the Navab eats,
His doctor’s blood pressure goes up.
The patron hogs all sorts of things and if
His belly aches as a result, then God
Help the doctor; even if he were
Avicenna, he would be declared a fool
In short, they don’t hire doctors.
They hire soldiers to fight with death.
Translated from the Urdu by Shamsur Rahman Faruqi
Ajneya (1911-87)
Kalemegdan*
On this side
in a long moat
between the rampart and the inner wall
carefully ordered
stacks of weapons from the last war:
tank trunks, mutilated cannons, flat-nosed mortars—
their unblinking blind eyes
staring at the sky.
On that side
on a mound
between the rampart and the wall,
half overgrown by disorderly thickets
ruins of a monastery and a church
darkness surging from frameless windows
These My Words Page 19